


Dust

by johnwatso



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dust Bowl, Love Story, M/M, No Major Character Death, Pre-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 11:05:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15639462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/pseuds/johnwatso
Summary: Ecology, agriculture, man, all in ruins. Dust eats away, even at itself, cannibalistic and cruel. Not like the sand on the shore. Not nearly as innocuous.Only amidst the chaos of a world in ruins could they finally find their way to each other.





	Dust

Dust. Everywhere one looks, dust. Little swirls of it dancing on the pavements and through the flat if they leave the door open for too long when reentering. It settles on everything. Food, tabletops, faucets, cushions, hair, forearms, knees. It sometimes feels as though they are swallowing it, sputtering on the dredges of a ball of dirt as it struggles down their oesophagus.

Ecology, agriculture, man, all in ruins. Dust eats away, even at itself, cannibalistic and cruel. Not like the sand on the shore. Not nearly as innocuous.

They stay indoors as much as possible, leaving only for provisions. They wear on each other, nerves stretched thin with everything said and unsaid. They are each other’s only company, Mrs Hudson having left sixteen weeks ago to accompany her sister and brother-in-law to America, where the dust hadn’t reached ( _yet_ , Sherlock had amended, but only once she’d gone and John was the only one still around to hear it. If it had reached them in London, what was to stop it from finding them on another continent?).

All the top experts have either declared their confusion or have wisely remained silent on the matter. The news - the only thing that graces their screens bar reruns that Sherlock hasn’t seen and John has seen too often - seems more like a war report these days, while the newspapers stopped printing months ago (not that they ever had anything novel to add).

They’ve argued about every possible practicality as a way of avoiding bringing up the big stuff. They argued about shampoo once - a new low, even for them. Sherlock hates the way John still whistles at the bathroom sink in the morning on the days he brushes his teeth. John hates the way Sherlock never whistles at all anymore, adding to the deafening silence that they’ve been forcibly wrapped up in.

Not once have they addressed, head on, what’s happening all around them. They speak about water, food, electricity, dust - always dust. They never speak about why so many people they know aren’t there anymore. They’ve never discussed why so many people at John’s surgery had come in with respiratory diseases. They certainly don’t discuss _why_ it’s so hot, so dry, so acrid, only offhandedly mention that it is:

“It’s hot today.”

“Mmm.”

“Hotter than yesterday.”

“Thanks, John, I, too, can feel it.”

“Prat.”

They certainly never debrief after the news reports spell disaster, death, and more disaster. They turn off the television set, move it out of sight as they would usually do, and clear their throats, avoiding eye contact. They go to bed with knots in their stomachs and fire in their throats, but they keep it off their tongues, not wanting to vocalise it and make it any more stark than it already is.

The tragedies that resulted in the decay among them before the dust ever even came would have been enough. Why this on top of it all, then?, they both wonder, separately. They used to choke on their words before, but for entirely different reasons. They used to revel in their silence, take comfort in the warmth of it, cocooning them in, safe and harmless. Now it suffocates them, cotton wool tufts stuffed into their mouths and duct taped shut.

It was a late January afternoon, sun blazing, winter forever obliterated, when the topic was danced around, briefly.

“I’m glad it’s you,” John had said quite out of the blue, each of them in their respective chairs, sitting in contemplative silence.

“Hmm?” Sherlock answered, not even remotely concentrating yet, his eyes focused on the spattering of dust heaving up around the fireplace as the fire crackled on.

“I’m glad I’m here with you. While…”

“Yes.”

And that had been it. All these months, with just a _glad it’s you_ to tide them over and tether them to each other, still, through the dust and the arguments and the seemingly perpetual silence. Cancerous almost in its prolonged and intense nature. It made their feelings a dirty, shameful thing.

Night after night, John lay down to sleep in his flat on the other side of London, while Sherlock lay in his, and both thought of nothing but the other, and how best to conquer the tension that was tearing at the seams of their friendship. Ever since Mary, John never brought anyone home again in that capacity. Sherlock never questioned it, only when worrying that the carnage of their shared lives would amount to nothing, not even a happily ever after for the marriage that had finally broken him. Her death meant that John wouldn’t get to be happy, the way Sherlock had fought for in all these years. It meant he may as well not have gone, and if he may as well not have gone, he may as well not have been unhappy, himself.

John moved between lovers like the Mayfly Man at first, trying them on and earning his Three Continents moniker back but, ultimately, he couldn’t stomach it anymore. Waking up to them was like waking up to face himself, a prospect he couldn’t bear. Between the drinking and the fucking, he tried to drown himself in anything that didn’t involve being still with his innermost feelings. It worked for a little while but, eventually, it all caught up with him, an avalanche of guilt, pain and grief that he truly believed would never end, until it did.

Now, though, that’s all moot. John moved in shortly after it began, at first using the fact that his apartment was in a less populated area with fewer buildings, offering no protection from the winds. Sherlock hadn’t argued - hadn’t said much at all, just indicated that the room upstairs was, as ever, free. Now that the winds so clearly don’t discriminate, they have no excuses to fall back on. Not that they’ve tried to. It is what it is, and this is the comfortable territory that is well-worn beneath their fingertips; the spaces between words, the spaces where words should come.

John never sold his previous flat - the New World is not exactly a seller’s market - but he’s never set foot in it again, not in the ten months since he’s been here. _Home._ Mycroft did tell Sherlock, around the same time Mrs Hudson left, that some squatters had taken refuge in it, but he never bothered to relay the message to John.

Some days, they go out. Wednesdays for food, sporadically to avoid cabin fever. Some Sundays, John puts on his Sunday best as though the bells of church would chime, after all this time. He doesn’t make it out of the door.

John’s locum work hours dwindled until they stopped calling him altogether, probably due to the shortage of resources. Sherlock hasn’t had a case since Lestrade went to live with his ex-wife in the North, the dust reconciling them (by Sherlock’s estimations, for good this time). Neither of them bothered to find alternative sources of vocation or income, living off what they had, knowing, deep down, that their bank accounts would surpass them anyway.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock wakes up with a fright. John is leaning over him. It reminds him of Serbia and hot flashes of iron, a cruel, scarred man’s eyes staring down into his as he tried to slumber through the pain.

“Sorry,” John says softly, almost tenderly, lingering for a brief moment with his face mere centimetres from Sherlock’s. Hot, stale breath mingles with hot, stale breath as the charged moment continues. A word, a whisper, a breath could charge it ever more. But then, as though snapped out of a charm: “It’s Wednesday.” Stated plainly, flourishments left behind them, in the Old World.

Sherlock nods, wipes the sleep from his eyes and bones and leaps out of bed. He doesn’t have time for luxuries like an extra fifteen minutes under the sheets. Every Wednesday, the shelves are re-stocked with what little there is, and they have to make sure they’re early enough to claim their share for the coming week. It’s a more distinguished game of eat or be eaten that they play, dressed up with built-up stores and manufacturing but, at its core, a lot like predators in nature, hunting and gathering for their share; for their survival.

He puts on his uniform of beige linen trousers and a white linen shirt - no shower, sponge baths when absolutely necessary. He long abandoned his tight suits and formal shoes in favour of lighter fabrics. Some days, he doesn’t change into clothes at all. Wednesdays, though, necessitate it. Wednesdays are when he has a chance to join civilisation again, surround himself with the very people he used to turn his nose up at - average, all of them; blessedly, thankfully average. He revels in their normalcy, appreciating the stark contrast between their noxious environment and humanity, which, through the nature of his cases, he once thought of as wicked as a whole, but now knows is complex, fascinating and, above all, unable to be demarcated into any black or white category. He craves people, with their intricacies and hangups. Him, the willfully solitary madman. It seems like the most bizarre twist of all. No longer can he look into the faces of any one person and deem them dull or unnecessary. They carry a story. They’re his link to the Old World, to the man he once thought he was becoming.

Cold canned beans for breakfast on every day ending in Y. To Sherlock, it all tastes like grime, anyway. John finds comfort in the utilitarian diet, having endured similar conditions during his time in service. Comfort has to be found in every situation, he reminds himself. Half a glass of water to wash it all down. On Wednesdays, John only drinks a quarter, saving the remainder for when they arrive back home, like a treat after an arduous exercise.

They stand on the inside of the door, bracing themselves for whatever lays in wait outside. Their eyes meet, John nods once, Sherlock nods back, turns the handle.

The gush that greets them on the other side of the door is unexpected, even after all this time. One never grows used to devastation, after all. Umbrellas, packets, dirt, all float up, up, up with the dust, little pockets of dirty tornadoes twisting and lining the streets. They squint their eyes and pinch their lips shut, breathing the bare minimum through their nostrils, which are lined with brown already.

This is by far the worst they’ve ever seen it. They keep their heads down and forge on.

They enter the supermarket through the little back door, the only one that can close when opened. The automatic glass doors in the front haven’t been unlocked in months, a hastily printed sign reading _We’re open! Come around back!_ having been taped up at the time.

The shelves are sparse, even though it’s not quite quarter past eight yet. John wonders if people have been and gone already or if they were never quite full in the first place. Sherlock deduces to himself that it’s the latter.

John walks the aisles contemplatively, his worn trainers making crunching noises as each step forces the dirt further into the cracks of the linoleum floor. This, that, and this. Beans, always beans. When he adds luxury items such as bubble bath to their cart, Sherlock doesn’t comment.

They find a moment of comfort inside the shop, shielded by the thick walls from the hollow wind sounds outside.

It’s quieter than usual within these walls, though. Normally, it’s a place of respite where, every Wednesday, people come and forget about the grimness outside. They chat, someone giggle, exorbitant inflated prices are ignored. Sounds of life form a swaddle, comforting them in familiarity the same way the blanketed wrap comforts a newborn. Today, it’s as though they all sense that the horrible conditions awaiting them when they leave engender an appropriate hush that is usually found at funerals and religious ceremonies. A last observance to the god of the storm.

They’re in the dry foods aisle when a girl starts to cough, discreetly at first, but soon with a force that could only mean one thing these days. She’s around five years old, pigtails, dirty pink glitter sneakers that used to light up on each step, but now only the left one does. John doesn’t let himself observe much more than that. It doesn’t, however, escape either of their notice that the hand she has coughed into comes away red-stained. Sherlock looks away quickly, not wanting to be part of her mother’s reaction. John keeps looking, vacant eyes concealing the whirring thing on the inside. He’s counting down.

Sherlock notes the scene, mumbles out a muted, “Do we need sugar?” even though of course they don’t need sugar.

John snaps back to attention and they continue down the aisle, helplessly picking out a bunch of things they’re now certain they’ll never even begin to consume.

For a brief moment, as they wait for the teller to ring up all their purchases, their eyes meet. It’s not a question, but a statement _._

They pay and leave, walking in unison, right step, left step, right step, one foot in front of the other, eyes ahead, forward march.

The closer they come to Baker Street, the more frenetic the energy on the streets is. An ambulance comes rushing close, cutting a corner, ramping the pavement. The ever-stirring dust is a wild thing, the air almost vibrating with it, electric currents of rot orbiting their journey.

Sherlock audibly gasps as they almost step right over a dead bird outside their stoop, but it’s drowned in the chaos around them. The sun is blotted out by dust. There is no omen foreboding enough to prophesy their reality.

 

* * *

 

That evening, after the sky turns ludicrous shades of amber, exploding in vivacity, John is hungry enough that he knows it’s bedtime. Sherlock, luckily, conquered bodily demands ages ago, depriving himself of food and sleep and sexual release regularly when working cases. John used to chide him for these things, but Sherlock isn’t in a rush to say _I told you so._  Every former practice that has served him well in the New World is no victory, only because it has been necessitated. When choice is taken out of an exercise, one can no longer revel in it.

“Well,” John says, by way of explanation. Nothing like _goodnight_ is ever said in 221B Baker Street anymore, if only because it sounds too much like _goodbye_ , something that’s a little close for comfort.

Sherlock looks up from his research paper briefly. He starts to lift his hand, as if to reach, but abandons the gesture midway.

John waits a couple of seconds before nodding and turning around to make his way upstairs.

 

* * *

 

He isn’t asleep for long when he wakes up to the smell of something burning. _It’s happening,_  he thinks, before shaking the sleep off of himself and jumping out of bed.

He wonders if Sherlock is conducting an experiment, something he barely indulges in anymore. When John asked him why once, he said, with the too-flippant wave of a hand, that with scarce resources, experiments aren’t the priority. John knows the truth is that he can’t stomach engaging in something pleasurable while people outside perish. He’s just not that man anymore (he probably never was, John has to remind himself. The machine he once saw was part of the comfortably familiar facade).

On his way into the sitting room, he notices a hunched figure sitting in the darkness at the bottom of the mezzanine level. The stench of cigarette fills his lungs as the figure takes a long drag.

Ah. Smoking, not burning. Inhaling, not combusting. He huffs out a sigh of relief and joins Sherlock on the bottom step.

“Sorry,” Sherlock says when John sits down next to him.

“Hmm?”

“Couldn’t go outside,” he motions to the window opposite them and omits the _obviously._  The outside air looks as though it’s been replaced with dust alone, the oxygen infiltrated and morphed into something ugly and hateful, twisting their lifeline into a disfigured thing that you can’t tear your eyes from.

“Mind if I have a drag?” John asks, holding his index and middle finger out expectantly.

“You don’t smoke,” Sherlock frowns, passing the cigarette nevertheless.

“Yeah, well, you don’t know everything about me.”

Sherlock’s frown deepens. “Yes, I do,” he protests.

“No, you don’t,” John says, eyes meeting in the dim stairwell.

Sherlock pauses, a deep crevice forming where his eyebrows crease. John wants to reach out and placate it. He wants to do more than that.

“I think I do,” he whispers.

John smiles, inhales.

They sit in silence for a long time. Not the oppressive kind of silence that has been stifling them all these months; something more comfortable. Something like it used to be, once upon a time, before the world around them was torn down and their lives had imploded before their very eyes. Although that’s not fair, either, is it? The world has been imploding since day one, but they had something of an antidote before. They had hope.

John is the first to break the bubble. “How long?”

Sherlock purses his lips, turning forwards, eyes fixed on the wall ahead.

“You don’t know?” John asks incredulously. He feels shock and irrational anger. How dare he not know when he knows everything else? How dare he know not only that there are 243 different types of tobacco ash, but also the names and features of them all, yet not know this?

Sherlock slumps over slightly, his head almost in his own lap and every bit of futile pique drains right out of John’s body.

He reaches out with his right hand and clasps the back of Sherlock’s neck, his thumb rubbing little circles into the hairline. Sherlock leans back into the touch.

“It’s going to be okay,” he says, because that’s what you’re supposed to say.

“No. It isn’t,” Sherlock responds, voice raspy and almost pained. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back, trapping John’s hand in place. _Please._

“No. But it is what it is,” John says plainly, flicking the cigarette butt onto the floor of their flat and stomping it out with the heel of his slipper.

Sherlock rolls his head to the side and cranks one eye open at the butt on the floor, grins slightly.

John grins back and, pretty soon, the laughter comes from somewhere deep and private, bellyfulls of something that looks like joy but definitely isn’t.

“We can’t giggle at a crime scene,” Sherlock says, which causes them to double over further.

When the hysterical chuckles subside, they turn to each other.

“That girl earlier - ” John starts, mouth downturned and brows tightening together.

“I know,” Sherlock whispers.

John faces him, kisses him on the mouth, just once. Quieting the melancholy, if for a moment. It’s the most natural thing in the world, really, to make this tiny leap in what has been a history of restraint.

“Just like that?” Sherlock asks.

“Just like that,” John smiles, fond and sad. And then, “Is it okay?”

“What do you think?”

John turns his whole body towards Sherlock, taking him into his arms and allowing their mouths to meet in the middle, hot and desperate, each year shedding away by the second.

They cling to each other, hands in hair, tongues on throats, teeth on lips. The desperation that has been building not just since the dust arrived, but since that fateful day at Bart’s, seems to explode within the contained space. John kisses a messy row down Sherlock’s neck and back up again. He tastes the little hollow behind his ear and can’t get enough of the breathy moans coming out of Sherlock’s mouth, obscene as they are.

Sherlock tugs on John’s hair, urging him to do what, neither could say, but both understand. He turns his body, exerts the extent of his height to make John subject to his attention, needing above all else to claim and write his name as if to ensure that it can not be taken from him. He kisses as though he could tattoo himself on the inside of John’s skin. He kisses as though his oxygen depends on it.

“I have an idea,” he says when he has taken his fill, breaking apart just enough to allow air between them, their breaths mingling in the middle. “How much petrol do you have?”

John takes a couple of seconds to gain his composure and to keep up, something he has had to always do since that very first day. “A bit, I think,” he says, perfectly aware of how much he has - enough that he could return back to his flat should he ever wish to. He doesn’t say this.

Sherlock stands and holds out his hand. “Keys,” he demands.

John knows better than to ask and fetches his keys from the little side table in the entrance hall. Sherlock follows him down the stairs, his sudden good spirits indicated in the way he hops over the last three steps to make a little crash on the landing. John knows that sound well. A promising lead or an adrenaline-spiked conclusion to a long case could spur it on. How fond he had been of those moments without calling it fondness. How desperately he clings to them like frost to the Spring-bitten leaves.

“Let’s go,” Sherlock urges him from his reverie.

“Shouldn’t I go and get dressed first?”

“What for?” Sherlock’s arm is already slipping through the sleeve of his coat, one of the only constants in all this time: the deep blue tweed with the red buttonhole and the man beneath it.

Once he’s done, he takes John’s jacket off its hook and tosses it at him, practically squirming where he stands with impatience. That he could be so wise and yet so childlike some moments never ceases to endear John to him.

“Alright, I’m coming,” John whispers theatrically after toeing on his boots, though he isn’t sure why. Nobody lives there anymore bar the two of them.

On the way out the door, he can’t help but notice Sherlock steal a quick glance at Mrs Hudson’s front door.

“Will you drive or shall I?” Sherlock asks as they approach John’s car, having to almost shout over the cacophony of wind.

“I don’t know where we’re supposed to be going,” John points out, to which Sherlock responds by rolling his eyes and climbing into the front seat.

The ignition takes three tries until it catches.

They’re quiet in the car, the heat that rose between them back on the stairs of their home having settled for now. John looks out the window, tracking where they are by the landmarks they pass, some of them barely recognisable in their current, decaying states. He forms _before and after_ pictures without meaning to.

When they drive past Molly’s flat, John reaches for Sherlock’s hand over the gearbox.

Sherlock doesn’t let go until they arrive outside their destination.

The moon is not quite able to break through the mottled clouds, but they find their way nonetheless. The hotel looks pleasant enough on the outside, especially in the dark. Inside, however, is another story, the stench of ruin stark immediately.

The heavy glass door has come off the hinges at the top, causing it to lean to one side and let the outside air in. It used to be that one opened the door to let in the air. The fact that they had taken this for granted is an understatement. They cough as they force the door open, dust escaping from where it almost settles into their lungs.

There is a single, overturned lamp on in the reception area, lighting the debris around what used to be a pleasant waiting station. The carpets have no colour anymore, and neither does the furniture, each bit of fabric looking like a continuation of the last. The deep green of the round lobby sofa has lost not only its emerald intensity, its entire hue is off, too. The chandeliers that once sparkled with their own light are now dull, not even flickers to reflect off of the filthy crystal. The piano, left open as though it would ever be played again, is, even amidst all the decomposition, still the saddest thing in the room. Its perpetually vacant stool - as evidenced from the undisturbed dirt settled over the top - and wilting sheet music are the only thing distracting them from the keys that are now unitonal. With a pang, John is reminded of Sherlock’s violin, abandoned upright in its dusty case in a corner of the sitting room at Baker Street. He wonders distractedly whether he will ever get to hear its notes being teased from its strings again.

Anything that has a surface can’t be disturbed without the consequence of filth bouncing up as though from a trampoline. What the dust hasn’t destroyed, the sun and wind has. Tatters and debris settle over the entire ground floor. This isn’t the place they once knew. That place doesn’t exist anymore.

John takes a moment to soak it all in - the remains of humanity, making themselves a remnant, the incidental, unchosen Israel with no Saviour in sight.

“This is where we came that night,” he says, looking up at the ceiling as though it carries meaning. The pressed woodwork contains no revelation.

“Yes.” Sherlock is next to him in a heartbeat, scanning his face for a reaction.

“I couldn’t stand to go home and going to 221B was even more inconceivable. You brought me here then, too.” His voice cracks, the vessel that he has become threatening to spill over, threatening to open up and let something else in. He can’t allow that to happen until he knows what exactly that something is.

“Yes.”

He turns to Sherlock, eyes bright and clear, focused. They move towards each other as naturally as breathing used to be and his hand settles on Sherlock’s cheek as they kiss, sweet and simple at first, but soon deepening into something more pressing.

Sherlock breaks the kiss first, leaning his forehead against John’s and whispering, “John,” in a way so full of pain that it makes John’s heart compress.

“I know,” John whispers back.

That it could be that easy only makes the prolonged years behind them seem to stretch further and further in the only direction there is - away.

Sherlock takes John’s hand and they slowly walk through the hotel, observing the clues of life lived and then left. He makes stray deductions while John _hmm_ s and _aah_ s - slippers worn only once and left outside the door by a wealthy widow, one of a pair of earrings dropped on a stair by a man having an affair every Tuesday afternoon when his wife thought he was at work. As grateful as he is for Sherlock granting them this reprieve from the ghosts back home for a short spell, John still isn’t sure that they haven’t followed them here.

They chase each other down never-ending hallways and up stairwells, all the while very much aware that they wanted to come out and find the world, but it isn’t here anymore. Not even Sherlock’s brilliant deductions could breathe life back into it. All they really do now is serve to highlight the fact that those moments are past, never to be lived again. Opportunities dwindled down to a stray earring on a stair, slippers outside a door.

Before long, he notices that they’re standing in front of the door of the room that he stayed in the last time they were here. It was ostensibly for a case, but John knows - knew then - that Sherlock brought him here because he sensed the need to escape. When tragedy blew through his life, Sherlock blew back, comforting him solely with gestures and silent reassurances.

It takes less than twenty seconds for Sherlock to break into the room.

Everything is entirely different this time, the dust painting a sad sheen over the bedroom. At least the damage is minimal, with both door and windows shut tightly by whoever cleaned it last. There is still a wrapped chocolate on each pillow, a fact that makes John huff out a sob, which he contains with a fist to his mouth.

Sherlock reaches for him once more, squeezing lightly at his other hand while surveying the scene as well, tamping his reactions to the signs of expected but never delivered life firmly.

“Shall we order room service?” Sherlock asks lightly, the smile dancing on his lips not matching the flatness in his eyes.

“What shall we order?” John responds, gripping Sherlock’s hand back, leading him to the bed.

“I’ll have the veal, you’ll have the lobster.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Champagne. Champagne and strawberries.”

“Are we celebrating?”

“I think so.” That heartbreaking smile that doesn’t meet the eyes again.

John sits on the tan duvet cover and looks up. The moments pass in silence and then fall away, signifying nothing. He pulls Sherlock down for another kiss, crushing their mouths together so hard it could bruise, desperate to hold onto something tangible.

They break apart and look into each other’s eyes, searching for meaning there. Whatever they see, it’s enough. Lips reacquaint with lips and tongues meet. Their movements disrupt the settled, fine dust, awakening whorls in dances around them, painfully serenading their slow movements.

Sherlock rolls them over in a fluid motion, pulling John down on top of him without breaking their kiss.

With one heated, pregnant look, it’s sealed. All that’s left to do is allow their sweating, unclothed bodies to slide against each other, their intimacy heartbreaking in its simplicity. All the things they’ve long imagined slide away, paling in comparison to their present reality. Lonely nights with just the memory and fantasy of the other seem to have been a total underestimation, in fact.

They make love while the dust whirls around like falling stars, immortalising themselves on the white sheets.

They make love like it’s their last chance, and open up accordingly.

When it’s over, they lie in each other’s arms, peppering feather-light kisses on bare skin and murmuring solemn confessions that will never, ever be forgotten, not ever. Infinities lay at their feet now, nothing being hidden behind abstractions and wordlessness. Their path splits and splits and splits, the map book unfolding with possibilities. The only thing that obstructs them is the world itself.

Sherlock absently notes to himself that it’s the first time he’s ever slept with anybody in his life, and uses all of his will to suppress the idea that it may be the last.

 

* * *

 

John dozes on and off while Sherlock lies on his shoulder and abstractedly strokes his fingers through his fair chest hair. He thinks about all the bodies they’ve stepped over in their effort to be here, especially the ones from before the world began to crumble. He wonders if John feels as sorry about this as he does. He wonders if John feels it more because he has more to lose or if never having anything to lose is pain enough.

Mostly, he thinks about the uncertainty that taints everything that has transpired. If he takes a deep breath, he’ll only choke on dust, browned phlegm seeping out of his mouth and nose like maggots out of a corpse. What he can’t stand, though, above all, is that, if John takes a deep breath, the same will happen. What use is he if he couldn’t even prevent that much?

When it all began, he collected samples every hour - of the dirt itself, of the soil, of the air and plants and rain and ruin. He was relentless in his single-minded search. Surely this, he could solve. He toyed with the idea of a destiny, a calling that culminated in the cure. Every case, every experiment, every research paper - all his quantifiable efforts leading on a golden string to a single point where he could tease this - the final mystery - to its conclusion. It was as though purpose had happened upon him and every other moment of his miserable, senseless existence had simply been a means to this one end.

As the weeks passed, the experiments grew more and more frantic, yielding nothing nonetheless. He finally realised that he could not put the world under a microscope, no matter how hard he tried to. Instead of trying more, he hurled his own microscope against the wall of the kitchen, expecting release to come through shattering, catharsis in destruction. Only the slide inside cracked, the rest remaining pitifully intact. Infuriatingly, not even the wall paint had chipped.

The next morning, John had surveyed the damage, hands on his hips, questions on his tongue. He knew better than to ask them, instead sweeping the mess and storing the offending instrument under the kitchen sink, a place he knew Sherlock never had need to go, in their old life terming all the harmless household cleaning supplies kept there _dull_ and _useless_. He pushed a bucket in front for good measure and, when Sherlock woke up, he sat down at the kitchen table, looked at the floor, looked into John’s face and then never mentioned it again.

Now, though, Sherlock can’t help but feel guilt that he ever stopped trying. He knows, _God knows_ he knows that nothing would have come from it, but trying would have been better than giving up. Anything would have been better than that, surely. Giving up meant that even he, the great Sherlock Holmes, couldn’t offer a shred of hope.

“What are you thinking about?” John drawls out, lazy as syrup, cutting through Sherlock’s thoughts like a knife all the same.

He sighs. “Not much.”

John is silent, patient. Where Sherlock was maddened energy, he was always able to lay in wait, a lioness waiting for her moment to strike.

“I just. Everybody always said how clever I am. They used the term _genius_ as an adornment or a curse but, either way, it’s the one they chose, time and again. _Genius_ detective, _genius_ scientist, _genius_ psychopath. It has become…” he can barely bring himself to say the words, fearing not what John will think of them, but the release of them that will make them somehow more real, give them more weight, “somewhat of a noose.”

John doesn’t respond, just gathers him up in both arms and cradles him, as though he’s fragile, as though he means something when, really, hasn’t he just revealed the exact opposite?

He leans back a bit to look into John’s eyes, wondering what they contain. The poets speak of miracles and vast oceans, but all he discovers is what has always been there. Yet he can’t find it in himself to be disappointed. How could he be, when it’s the same eyes that broke the last of his restraints and tore down the Jericho he flaunted so proudly all his life? Literature alone couldn’t encompass the constancy staring back at him. It couldn’t even try.

John lifts his hand as if to touch Sherlock’s face - the intention unclear to them both - but instead holds it suspended in midair. The last bridge followed them right to their very marriage bed. Sherlock doesn’t try to fight it, simply holds the half-extended hand in his own and kisses John’s fingertips, one by one. _This one_ and _this one_ and _this one_ ; each caress a strong shout crumbling every last wall. An offering and a seal.

They lie in silence for a while after Sherlock’s gesture, examining the other’s faces, as though imprinting them upon their memories. They think of nothing. Peace hovers over them, blemished only by the fact that they aren’t in a glass bubble and the atmosphere surrounding their sleepy haven is still toxic.

 

* * *

 

The dust leaves almost as quickly as it came. Some experts claim that they knew it was just another, bigger Dust Bowl all along, while others warn that it will return, worse next time.  
  
They don’t know how much time they have or don’t have. All they know is that they won’t waste it anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments and bookmarks are much appreciated. Follow me on [my tumblr](http://lizlemo.tumblr.com).


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